


Hunger and Harm

by EmLeeKoe



Series: Jess and Thomas's post-canon adventures [3]
Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anger, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Best Friends, Blood, Blood and Injury, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, First Aid, Flashbacks, Forehead Kisses, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Help, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, Memories, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, Starvation, Suicide Attempt, Torture, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmLeeKoe/pseuds/EmLeeKoe
Summary: Jess finds out Thomas has been hoarding food due to an irrational fear of starvation caused by his time in prison, and Thomas has a very serious PTSD episode.
Relationships: Jess Brightwell/Thomas Schreiber, Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Series: Jess and Thomas's post-canon adventures [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696276
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Hunger and Harm

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a bit dark, fair warning.  
> The German glossary has been updated with the phrases I use in this fic. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346220

Jess fished in his pocket for his keyring as he climbed the four steps to the front door of the townhouse he shared with Thomas, and unlocked the door. Inside, he dropped his satchel to the floor and kicked off his shoes beside it, then shut the door and rolled his neck. Bookkeeping was hard work; sometimes he almost wished he were back in the High Garda. At least there had been no math involved.

The hot Alexandrian sun had beat down on him as he’d walked home, and he was sticky with sweat; he peeled off his shirt as he climbed the stairs to the washroom, then stopped as he passed Thomas’s door. Something had scuttled through the crack underneath—a cockroach, big, brown, and ugly.

Jess made a face. He’d grown up sneaking off to poorly-maintained warehouses and other, more unsavory places, to be alone and read books he shouldn’t have even thought about touching—according to his father, anyway. He was used to the occasional spider gliding down on a gossamer strand to settle on his shoulder and scurry off, or an ant using him as a bridge to get from one creaky rafter to the next. But that didn’t mean he liked them, let alone wanted them in his house.

He picked up the roach and brought it back downstairs, where he tossed it out the front door and into the street. He wouldn’t kill it, but he didn’t care so much as to worry about someone else doing so.

At the top of the stairs, he paused outside Thomas’s door again. The roach had come from inside. He’d never seen a single one in the kitchen, where the food was kept, so why would there be any up here?

The door was shut, which meant Thomas wasn’t home. He left it open all the way when he had the time or energy to talk, and left it open an inch or two when he didn’t. He never closed doors if he could help it, and when he had to, he didn’t spend much time behind them.

Lately, whenever he was home, his door had only been left open an inch. Jess had kept an eye on him whenever he could, but he’d been busy with his bookshop, and Thomas had been gone so often, spending long hours at his workshop, and when he was home, he’d been in his room most of the time. Jess was concerned, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good to push him. He would speak to Jess when he was ready—Jess hoped, anyway.

He turned the door handle and pushed it open. Thomas had covered the walls so thoroughly with papers, plans, and scribbled notes that the color of the walls—a muted gold tone—wasn’t immediately apparent. If Jess hadn’t known his friend, he would have thought the room belonged to someone who wasn’t entirely sane.

Jess thought back to all Thomas had endured, and how it had affected him. Perhaps that assumption would be correct. Then again, who among them was _entirely_ sane, after everything?

He scanned the floor, scattered with mounds of gears and bits of half-finished automaton parts, for more roaches, and turned on a Glow sitting on the messy desk so he could see better—it was sunset, and Thomas’s window faced east, so it was quite dark.

In the Glow’s greenish light, he saw not one but _three_ roaches scuttle under the bed—the only neat, clean thing in the room. He skirted piles of machinery and knelt, then lowered himself to the floor to look under the bed.

There were at least seven more roaches, but that wasn’t what concerned him—not entirely, anyway. He reached into the shadows and pulled out a loaf of bread, just beginning to grow flecks of mold. Then a bag of store-bought biscuits, a basket of fresh apples, and bottle upon bottle of water. There were more packages and parcels further underneath that he didn’t bother to reach for, since he didn’t quite relish the idea of insects crawling up his arm. What on earth was all this?

“What are you doing?” came a voice, familiar in all but its harsh tone.

Jess jumped, turning as he rose onto his knees. “Thomas,” he said, and then struggled to find words. How had he missed the sound of his best friend coming home, climbing the stairs? When they’d first met, his heavy footfalls were unmistakable, announcing his comings and goings without fail, but now he moved so silently, it was as if he was constantly afraid of being caught.

“What are you doing?” Thomas said again, but his voice was even harsher now. He threw his armful of carefully rolled papers into a corner and stalked closer.

Against all reason, Jess realized he was afraid. He stood and backed away, and Thomas bent to push the food back under the bed.

He turned toward Jess then, straightening up to his full height. His fists were clenched, and they shook. “Get out, Jess.”

“Thomas, what is this—”

“Get _out!_ ” His roar was deafening, and Jess’s heart jumped into his throat at the wild look on his face, but he stood his ground.

“Thomas, we have roaches because of all that. We have plenty of food in the pantry! Why would you—”

Thomas charged forward and shoved Jess so hard he stumbled through the door and hit the wall opposite. Then he slammed the door shut. Completely. It didn’t open again. From the other side, he heard heavy breathing, something splintering, something else thudding against a wall, paper ripping.

He caught his breath, blinking rapidly, then bent to fetch the shirt he’d discarded before venturing inside Thomas’s room, slid his arms into it, and buttoned it as he ran down the stairs and out the front door.

*****

“What do you _want?_ ” came Christopher Wolfe’s voice from the other side of the door. Then he yanked it open. “We’re _trying_ to have sup—” The words died on his lips when his eyes fell on Jess. “Jess, what are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you both.” Jess pushed past him into the house and stood in the foyer, wringing and twisting his hands. He realized his forehead was bunched up in knots, and it was beginning to give him a headache, but he couldn’t seem to relax the muscles.

“Jess?” Niccolo Santi strode into the foyer, and when Jess turned to meet his gaze, Santi’s eyes widened just a bit, his black brows drawing closer to each other. “Is it Thomas?”

Jess nodded, and then pressed his lips together, drawing deep breaths, willing himself to remain calm. “I don’t know—” he began, and then tried again. “He’s just—” He couldn’t seem to put words together.

“It’s alright,” Wolfe said, voice much more tender than it had been a moment ago. He gestured to the living room sofa. “Go sit down.”

As Jess did so, Wolfe disappeared around the corner, toward the kitchen; Santi followed Jess and sat on an armchair, watching him carefully.

“Is he safe?” asked Santi.

Jess began to nod, then froze. “I-I’m not sure, sir.” His heart skipped a beat at this realization.

“Well, he must be reasonably safe for the moment, for you to leave him,” Santi rationalized, and they sat in silence for a few minutes that seemed more like hours. At last, his gaze moved beyond Jess, his eyes growing warm as Wolfe reappeared.

Wolfe sat on another armchair, facing Jess, and set a mug on the table. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Mint tea,” said Santi, sharing a glance with Wolfe, who nodded back at him. “Good for the nerves.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jess picked up the mug and inhaled a deep breath of the sweet, fresh-smelling steam before taking a sip.

“Tell us what happened,” said Wolfe, rather than acknowledging the thanks.

Jess took another sip, then set the mug down, heart still pounding, and when he let go, he realized his hands were trembling, just the tiniest bit. Adrenaline? Anxiety? He wasn’t sure.

In short, halting sentences, he described what he’d found, and Thomas’s response to finding Jess in his room. He didn’t miss Wolfe’s hands curling tighter around his own mug, and Santi’s worried gaze flicking to his lover now and then.

When he finished, Niccolo cleared his throat. “Jess,” he began, “do you remember how Thomas looked when we found him?”

The memory was blurred around the edges, likely thanks to the hard knock to the head he’d taken from the Spartan automaton he’d barely managed to disable just before they’d reached his best friend’s cell. But he could never forget the sight of Thomas, practically skin and bone under the bruises and scars, curled in the corner of his cell, the terror in his gaze warring with the relief in his voice. Tears had poured from his eyes as he’d asked Jess whether the rescue was an illusion, and it had been all Jess could do to hold back his own.

 _Yes,_ he tried to reply, but his voice didn’t work, so he nodded and reached for the mug, craving its warmth to stop his hands from shaking.

“How do you think he got that thin?” Santi prompted. “They starved him.” He glanced at Wolfe again, letting his eyes linger for more than just a moment this time. _Remembering._

“Sometimes,” Wolfe said, voice low, “when people are refused adequate food for that long, it changes the way they think about food.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jess, although he thought he might, but he wanted it explained.

“He has a persistent fear of being starved,” said Wolfe. “It’s irrational, and he knows that. But he can’t help it. Hiding away food is how he copes with that phobia."

Jess let go of the mug with one hand, and massaged his forehead. It didn’t help the tense muscles relax. “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Has he spoken to the Medica I recommended?” asked Santi.

“He wouldn’t,” Jess replied. “He doesn’t want to take medication for his anxiety. He said he worries it would change the way his mind works.” He didn’t add how stupid he thought that was. Why would anyone refuse the help they so desperately needed? He refused to dwell on how hypocritical that was, coming from him.

“Well, if it’s that or continue to allow your home to be infested with cockroaches,” said Wolfe, “I would try—gently—to get him to reconsider.”

“Has he been sleeping?” asked Santi.

Jess sipped his tea, thinking back over the past week to every time he’d risen in the night to use the toilet. Thomas’s door had been closed many nights in a row. He hadn’t been home.

“I don’t think so.” He sighed heavily. “But I don’t understand. He has everything he could want. A workshop, patents for his printing presses, a comfortable home…” He refrained from adding _and me_.

“Demons don’t disappear just because circumstances change,” said Wolfe; it was almost a whisper, and Santi’s concerned gaze was steady on his lover now.

“He’ll get through this,” said Niccolo, but Jess wasn’t entirely sure whether he was speaking of Wolfe or Thomas.

Wolfe glanced at Santi, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “He just needs time, and several metric tons of patience.”

Niccolo smiled softly, pure adoration shining from his eyes for a moment, before turning back to Jess. “Be gentle with him,” he instructed, “but don’t patronize him. And for fuck’s sake, try to get him to at least speak to a Medica about medicines.”

“You should get back to him,” interjected Wolfe. “From what you’ve described, he…” His scarred hands tightened around his clay mug. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

Jess nodded, but he couldn’t move. He was afraid, he realized. Afraid of what his best friend was capable of. Afraid he’d do something wrong and make it all worse. Afraid of the crazed look in Thomas’s eyes, the sounds of destruction coming from behind his closed door—afraid he would do something rash.

This should have made him jump up and run home immediately, but he was paralyzed.

“Jess,” said a faraway voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Then a hand was on his back. “Son,” said Wolfe’s voice in his ear, softer than Jess ever remembered hearing it, “you will both be alright.”

“ _A broken bone heals twice as strong,_ ” said Santi, suddenly standing beside him, with a hand on his shoulder; Jess hadn’t noticed either of them moving. “And you have us. You know we’ll come the instant you ask.”

Jess managed to nod, blinking away the wetness from his eyes. “Right,” he said, forcing his arm to lift the mug to his mouth, draining the rest of the tea before setting the empty cup on the coffee table. “Thank you. I’m sorry for keeping you from your supper.”

“Yes, well,” said Wolfe, pulling on his gruff attitude again as he stood. “See that it doesn’t happen again. Now get out.”

Jess felt one corner of his mouth tugging upward at the familiar, prickly shell Wolfe had pulled back on like a cloak, wondering how it had ever fooled him in his postulant days. Wolfe cared for him and the rest of his erstwhile students like a father—a _proper_ father, not like the one Jess had been born to. “Yes, sir.”

*****

With a squeal of brakes, the steam carriage slowed to a stop in front of his townhouse, and Jess clenched his fists, willing himself to move, to just go in. But for some reason, he was afraid of what he would find.

“Is this the right address, sir?” asked the driver.

“Yes,” he said. “Sorry. Thank you.” He opened the door and stepped out, then handed the driver his fare through the front window, plus a generous tip.

“Thank you kindly,” said the wizened old man, and he pulled away, steam puffing from the exhaust pipe.

It took Jess several tries to fit the key in the lock, but finally he managed to get in the house.

“Thomas?” he called softly as he bolted the door behind him. There was no answer, and everything downstairs seemed to be as he’d left it.

Drawing a deep, bracing breath, he climbed the stairs and stopped at Thomas’s door. It was still closed. Gently, he knocked, and received no answer; steeling himself, he cracked the door open.

“Thomas?”

“No,” his friend said simply, quietly, breathlessly.

Jess pushed the door open and blinked at the mess he found inside. The papers had been ripped off the walls, the desk toppled over, one of the legs broken. The bed was overturned, and the mounds of parts had been scattered everywhere. Frantic scribbles covered one wall, equations and technical jargon and diagrams of wires and automaton lions. It called up the memory of Thomas’s handwriting in chalk on the wall of his cell. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Thomas,” he said again as he stepped through the doorway, careful not to step on a half-repaired automaton bird.

“ _Nein. Bitte._ ” His voice was ragged.

And then Jess caught sight of him, curled in the corner, huddling against the wall. Like he’d been in the cell.

As Jess drew closer, he saw the dim light of the Glow reflecting off wetness on Thomas’s face; he was staring at Jess, a strange mixture of terror and resignation in his eyes.

Slowly, Jess drew closer, holding out a hand. His pulse pounded in his ears. “It’s alright, Thomas,” he said softly. “It’s me.”

“I can’t,” said Thomas, breathing faster. “Leave me _alleine_. _Bitte._ ” Somehow, he curled up even smaller in the corner, clutching his arms to his chest. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

“You’re alright,” said Jess, edging closer until he was within arm’s reach; he gently cleared debris away from a small section of the floor and knelt there.

“ _Bitte, du kannst mich nicht wieder dorthin bringen_ ,” he mumbled in German; Jess only understood a few words— _please, you, again, bring_ —and it didn’t make sense.

“Should have made a better effort to learn German,” he grumbled, then reached out an unsteady hand to touch Thomas’s shoulder.

Gasping, Thomas flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut, and began babbling in German, his voice high and pleading, breathing as if he’d just sprinted from one end of Alexandria to the other.

Jess was lost. He had no hint of an idea what to do or how to help his friend. He was just about to go for his Codex to message Wolfe and Santi when he realized that the darkness on Thomas’s arms was more than just shadows.

“Thomas,” he tried to say, but his throat closed. He reached out again and gently, gently wrapped his fingers around Thomas’s rock-hard fist. “Thomas,” he managed, “let me see.”

“ _Ich kann das nicht mehr machen._ _Bitte, ich will sterben_ ,” he whispered, and all Jess could make out was _I can not,_ and _please, I want._

“I don’t understand, Thomas,” he said, his voice catching. “Please, let me see.” He pulled on Thomas’s arm, and his friend whimpered softly, but slowly straightened it, and Jess couldn’t keep from gasping.

The skin on the inside of his forearm had been ripped to shreds. His fingernails were jagged, broken, and caked with blood—had he done this with his bare hands? Blood coated his skin and dripped from the wounds.

“Thomas,” he said, “we have to get these bandaged. Come on.” He pulled on Thomas’s arm, but the bigger man cried out and pulled away, curling tighter into the corner. He’d never even imagined Thomas looking so small.

“You can’t!” he gasped, and ragged sobs burst from his chest. “You can’t take me there again. Just let me die.”

He thought he was back in his cell, Jess realized at last. He thought Jess was a guard, coming to bring him to the torture chamber. He thought he’d never escaped, and that ripping the veins from his wrists was the only way out.

“You’re safe,” he said softly. “You’re bleeding. Let me help. Look, it’s me, it’s Jess.”

He began to mutter in German again, and Jess wasn’t sure even Thomas himself knew what he was saying. He should send a message to Santi and Wolfe—but no, Thomas would be even more frightened if he called in reinforcements. His only chance was alone.

He moved closer. “Remember how you built the Ray of Apollo, Thomas? You defeated the automaton dragon. You saved so many lives.” Thomas kept mumbling strings of German, and he seemed not to hear, but Jess continued anyway. “Remember when you solved the puzzles in Heron’s tomb? You were the first one ever to reach the end. You’re a genius. You saved my life.” Tears flooded his eyes, but he continued. “Look at me, Thomas. I’m real. You can touch me, and I won’t go away.” He reached for Thomas’s other arm and pulled it straight, cradling both of his friend’s trembling fists in his hands. The other arm was just as destroyed, blood pulsing from deep, jagged furrows. “Please, just look at me. We’re at home. You’re safe. I’m here.”

For several seconds, Thomas didn’t respond, and Jess feared he would have to summon Wolfe and Santi after all. But finally, mercifully, Thomas turned his head, still leaning on the wall, and his shining eyes settled on Jess’s.

“Jess,” he whispered, and slowly, his fists uncurled. “You’re real?”

Jess nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and tried unsuccessfully to smile. “I’m real.”

Thomas’s large hands latched onto Jess’s and squeezed tight enough to hurt, as he stared intently into Jess’s eyes, and at last, he let Jess pull him forward, onto his knees.

“Good,” Jess said, and made no sudden movements as he got to his feet and helped Thomas to his. Thomas swayed, and Jess wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him. “Come on, let’s get you to the kitchen. We’ll patch you up.” He was going to add _and get you something to eat,_ but wasn’t sure whether talk of food would trigger him again, since that had started all this.

Slowly, they picked their way over the debris to the door, which Jess had left wide open. As they stepped through, Thomas stiffened again, and a violent wave of trembling wracked his body, almost enough to knock him down.

“It’s alright,” Jess assured him. “You’re safe. We’re at home.”

“Home,” Thomas croaked, and took another step.

They descended the stairs, slowly, carefully, and Jess led him to the kitchen table; he pulled out a chair with his free hand, and Thomas collapsed into it, curling over his lap.

Jess turned on the bright overhead Glow, put the kettle on to boil, set a bowl of cool water and a clean towel on the table, then rifled through their medicine cupboard for bandages and wound cleaner and brought those to the table as well. After washing his hands, he moved another chair so he could sit facing Thomas, and gently, gently touched his friend’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me see.”

Trembling, Thomas uncurled himself and stretched his arms out, wrists up, the backs of his hands resting on Jess’s knees. His fingers twitched erratically.

As gently as he could, Jess washed away the dried blood and the fresh with the soft towel, then poured the wound cleaner over Thomas’s arms. Thomas stiffened, sucking in a breath through his nose, pulling away ever so slightly.

“I know it burns,” said Jess. “I’m sorry. You’re going to be alright.” He paused to take Thomas’s hands in his, and Thomas squeezed them until the burning passed. The effort made fresh blood bead on his wounds, mingling with the cleaner and dripping down to the floor.

“Good,” said Jess as his friend’s grip relaxed. After blotting away the cleaner and the fresh blood, he gently wrapped Thomas’s forearms in bandages, pinned them in place, then gently scrubbed the blood from Thomas’s fingertips and clipped the ragged nails. When he was finished, he stood to remove the whistling kettle from the stove.

“Come on, we’ve got to have some somewhere,” he muttered to himself, searching the cupboards until he finally found a green box labeled _MINT TEA_. He set it to steep in their teapot, then returned to stand before Thomas, putting his hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“Are you here with me?” he asked gently, and Thomas looked up. There were deep, bruise-like circles around his red eyes, the darkness shocking against his pallid face.

“ _Es tut mir leid,_ ” Thomas said, then closed his eyes and shook his head a little, as if resetting his brain, and switched to English. “I am sorry, Jess.”

“No,” Jess said, “ _I’m_ sorry.”

Thomas shook his head, in disagreement this time. “I was horrible. Sometimes—sometimes I still feel like a—”

“If you say _monster_ , I’ll upend this teapot over your fool head,” Jess stated, coaxing a weak smile from Thomas. Then, suddenly, Thomas’s arms were around his waist, pulling him close.

Jess’s arms flew up several inches in surprise, then he settled one hand on Thomas’s back and, carefully, ran the other through his friend’s hair.

Thomas’s face was buried in Jess’s chest; he held tightly to him as he began to weep again, his breath hot on Jess’s skin, and Jess found himself craning his head forward to lay a gentle kiss on the top of his friend’s head.

“You’re alright,” Jess said, and it took all his willpower not to start bawling too. When had he become so soft? “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

By the time Thomas’s grip loosened, the tea was too strong, but Jess put extra sugar in it, and they drank it anyway.

“Do you think you can eat?” he asked Thomas, who nodded.

“I can make something,” he said weakly.

“You’re going to sit right there,” Jess ordered, cleaning the medical supplies off the table before wiping it down.

He was too tired to cook an entire meal, and judging by Thomas’s eyes and the way he swayed like a sapling in a breeze, he might fall asleep in the hard wooden chair if he took the time to do so, anyway. He set plates of bread and cheese on the table, fetched a bowl of figs from one of the counters, and filled two glasses with water, then sat back down.

They ate in silence. When Thomas had cleaned his plate, Jess fetched more bread and cheese for him; he did this twice more before Thomas held out a hand to say he’d had enough.

“Alright,” said Jess when they were finished, “let’s get you to bed.”

They climbed the stairs, Thomas’s arm around Jess’s shoulders, and stopped at Thomas’s door.

“Oh,” said Jess as Thomas leaned on him more heavily at the sight of the wreckage. “Right.”

“I can clean it up,” said Thomas, his words slurred with exhaustion.

“No,” Jess said, “my bed is big enough for us both.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You will.” Jess ensured his tone left no room for argument.

Thomas was silent for a moment, then said, “Alright.”

They went on down the hall to Jess’s open door.

“Oh,” Thomas said, pulling his shirt away from his chest with his free hand. “I—the blood—”

“I’ll get you a clean shirt,” Jess said. “Go on, sit down.”

Thomas sat on the edge of Jess’s bed, and Jess ducked into the disaster that had once been a nice bedroom; stepping over junk to Thomas’s closet, he pulled a soft shirt from a hook inside, then returned to his room.

“Thank you.” Thomas changed his shirt, and Jess pulled a clean shirt from his own closet, changing as well. He’d wanted to bathe when he’d first arrived home, but now he couldn’t imagine leaving Thomas alone long enough to do so. He left the door wide open, setting a shoe in front of it to reassure Thomas that it wouldn’t shut, and returned to the bed. He sat on its edge for a moment, jotting a quick reply to a worried inquiry from Santi.

_He’s alive. We’re fine. Will talk tomorrow. Thanks._

The reply came before he could set his Codex back on the nightstand; Santi must have been watching his own closely. He opened the Codex to look.

 _Goodnight,_ it said, but in Wolfe’s handwriting.

Thomas laid down on his back, his bandaged arms turned awkwardly wrist-up at his sides; Jess did the same, minus the awkward arm positioning, and pulled the covers over both of them.

Silence reigned for several minutes, and Jess was tired, but his heart still beat too quickly to let him sleep.

Finally, Thomas said, “Jess?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you an honest question?”

“’Course.”

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Jess blinked, trying to think of how to respond. “Thomas, you’re the kindest, gentlest person I know.” He paused for a long moment before adding, “I am afraid, though. Of what you might do to yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Jess,” Thomas said, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Sometimes, nothing that’s happened since— _then_ —is real. I forget everything. _Everything_ ,” he repeated, in a whisper like shattered glass, and it sent a shiver through Jess.

Jess rolled onto his side and laid his head on Thomas’s shoulder, pleasantly surprised by how _right_ it felt. “I know,” he said. “The same happens to me sometimes. But you need to tell me _before_ it gets this bad. There’s no shame in it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry.”

“Thomas?”

“ _Ja?_ ”

“You should see a Medica. Get some medicine. It will help.”

Thomas sighed, and for a moment, Jess was worried he’d be angry, but he replied, “I know. First thing tomorrow. I promise.”

Jess’s heart finally began to slow, and just as he was beginning to drift off, Thomas spoke again.

“Jess?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“’Course.”


End file.
